nothing mid- about the mid-west

While everyone knows that Chicago is sort of an exception when it comes to the midwest (maybe even the exception, that proves the rule), I will just not get on board with the notion that the rest of this excellent region is not pulling its weight. From the food and art you find in the smaller cities, to the attitudes and traditions of the little specks on the map, Middle America does not deserve nearly the derisiveness that coastal humbugs like to dish out. Of course, here I am moving from one coast to the other, gracing the region with my presence for a mere week or so; I wouldn't listen to a hypocritical asshole, either. But wait! Let me make my case.

This century's dogged commitment to tech, which always invites disenfranchisement of the local voice, is like the Manifest Destiny of today. Just like that itch to move West transformed our country 200 years ago, the itch to innovate and share and be special is transforming America's cultural landscape. And while I certainly believe in the power of the "new" to lead us forward, there is not a shred of wisdom in trampling the things that have persevered so that we might glimpse, for a moment, the vanguard.

Here's what I mean. When things develop on the coasts, usually they are hot, exciting, and dramatic, with the muscle of industry titans and the audiences to match. The Met does opera like no where else, everyone is watching when Apple rolls out a new phone, the speed of life is so exciting, BLAH BLAH BLAH. And while the blast radius of innovation in those places is impressive, so is the burn-out effect. I know just as many people who leave the big cities as who move there.

There is nothing wrong with this. But I make the point to show that there is nothing wrong with working in smaller spheres, and living in less intrinsically exciting places, as your life's work. In fact, the greater focus it takes to remain consistent over many years might just make that work more valuable to those that you do touch.

Let me give you an example. My hosts in Madison are a couple who my family met about 15 years ago, when we lived here for a sabbatical. They have kids similar ages to my family, and values that match well with my family's. We all hit it off, and have been the type of friends ever since that I felt more than comfortable staying with them as a 24-year old, who hadn't been to their house in over a decade, as I did when I used to come over as a 6-year old.

These are two people who get stopped on the street downtown by a network of neighbors and colleagues, glowing with the satisfaction of mutual friendship; these are people who wake at 5a every morning so that they might share coffee before work together, after having been married for 35 years; these are people who are as interested in the minutiae of their daily work lives as they are in the principles that have shaped their careers. And these are people who have tasted the coasts and travelled their share, but have chosen to live and thrive in the region where they grew up.

Life is a series of choices, and their's have led them to this totally livable town (Madison), in a totally exciting field (education), with two totally ass-kicking children (who have moved far and wide). Man, what wealth!

Needless to say, I was excited for my own explorations of their -ville. My first day in the city began with breakfast at a true Wisconsin institution--Mickey's Dairy Bar. The food was good, but the prices, and the service/ambience were excellent. And how often can you say you have eaten pancakes, eggs, and a chocolate malt before 7a? Rockin.

Hopping on my bike for 5 minutes at a time, I toured the Capitol building and read underneath the shade of its cupola, saw some modern art, took in a Frank Lloyd Wright public space overlooking one of Madison's beloved lakes, dunked in the other of said lakes, and even visited one my host's fourth-grade classroom. I perused its local businesses, and bathed in the soft glory that is a true Wisconsin accent. And then, when it got too hot (96!), I took respite in my hosts' beautiful air conditioned home, that has lovingly and organically evolved over the years.

And while all of this would've been striking to a new visitor ("Man, what a bitchin city!"), my experience was extra heady because of the incredible tendrils of memory that I felt more than truly remembered. Riding by old grocery stores, and soccer fields where I first played, and the homes of childhood friends, was fantastic, and seemed to only underscore the marriage of old with new that makes this place so great. It was like a natural fermentation, at the proper pace of progress, that changed this town. While there are cranes every where you look, there will always be the thirty people who show up, in a snowstorm, to protest a minor neighborhood development project that doesn't feel quite right.

There was so much more, too: impromptu community sing-alongs by the Capitol, lush lake-side parks where wind whispered along with my kettlebell-ing, free bike repair at the local shop, the best cup of coffee since Render Cafe in South Boston. It makes me think of a Jonathan Swift quote I just saw: "May you live every day of your life. Fuck the naysayers who think the midwest is like America's heart attack." I added to his quote, slightly.

But again, the schedule shot me out on the road on September 11th.

the gravity of other people, part 2

When I left you last Toronto had just lodged itself in my heart, but when the day came to leave the road felt right again. Climbing into my little four-wheeled home, I packed at dawn and found a spot on Lake Ontario for my cup of coffee. Flapping gulls and vivacious septuagenarians were my only companions, but none of us felt like breaking the seal of that early morning. I drank and drank and drank that sunrise. Somehow, these feel like things I must do. Sunrises, and lake dunks, and beautiful shady spots; all feel weighty in a way that I usually miss in my day-to-day. I'm not going to write about how each of us should take time every day to find moments like that, because I'm not sure that's all it is. There is something about cultivating the voice that encourages you to attack those weighty moments that is worth paying attention to. But then we just hold on for the ride, or at least that how it feels for me.

This was to be my first big day of driving. 274 miles to Ann Arbor for lunch with an old friend, and then 259 more to Evanston, just outside of Chicago, to stay with my relatives. Crossing the border was trippy, like any of these moments of sudden intimacy with a humungous governmental machine. At first, I am always a little peeved with their rehearsed, slightly-suspicious attitude, but driving away from his kiosk I was struck more by the little parts of his delivery that required personality and warmth. Over an 8 hour day, that's a lot of warmth; good on him.

Lunch was excellent, Indian, a "cross between curry and stir-fry," said their menu. Anything festooned with shreds of raw ginger automatically gets a VIP pass into my stomach (and out of it, apparently). And seeing my friend, a violinist at U of M, was inspiring. Without ever wavering, her commitment to getting elbow-deep in music has been like a lantern for the rest of us to follow since I first played with her in 9th grade youth orchestra. Being at the university has allowed her to take classes that seems scrumptiously poignant ('Music School of the Future'), while her own innate hunger for good, new stuff has led her to all sorts of tasty premieres (playing with the composer), chamber groups and teaching experiences (teaching graphic notation, with balls of yarn, to 5 year olds? yes, please). There are people like this all over the country, folks, so PLEASE GO SEE NEW MUSIC. Ahem.

Driving away I felt buzzed to try new things, but in a way different from when I was younger. Without just trying a skill or a technique or an area on for size, I love the idea of sending little tendrils of growth out from my established and cultivated garden of experience. What I mean, I guess, is that the new that comes out of the old is of worth in a way that make them definitively not fads. Stay tuned for such new things.

But the buzz didn't last, and pretty soon I was blinking my eyes open, never a good sign when behind the wheel. Pulling over, I threw down one of my better KB workouts thus far, right there on the grass by the semi-trucks. Woke me right up.

The rest of the drive stretched long, but time zones were on my side in a surprising (to me) way. For the record, 25 hour days really are an amazing thing. At one point, though, I stopped in Gary, Indiana for gas. While it recalled my one and only musical theater experience (Music Man--I was 5, so no I won't sing any tunes from it), things have changed from how they were presented to me. I have never seen a more desolate town. Buildings were bombed, out with deep gapping holes where windows should've been, chewing on the tired town's overheated and underpopulated sidewalks. The only activity was at the town's 2 gas stations, where a full-bore competition for my car-wash business was in effect. While I didn't stop for the wash, the scene was poignant. The dark house where the washing apparently took place stood empty, with 15 or so men getting old right there. I wondered what our conversation might be like, but my schedule (or my fear?) pushed me onward.

And then, after a quick skirmish through Chicago with the most tense traffic this side of Istanbul, I got to Evanston at sundown. In case you didn't know, Evanston is the nicest suberb in America. Okay, maybe not, but heysoos kristo, the wide avenues! the beautiful, gigantic houses! the lawns! the perfect dance of classic with modern! I felt a little trashy for liking it so much.

And of course, my relatives have, since my last visit, moved into an incredible Art Deco house, one of the last in the area apparently. A big, white brick affair, the house is edged with classy, square ornaments. Warm wood and careful craftsmen accents fill each corner. Amazingly, such a beautiful home felt lived in, too, what with my cousins and their awesome bebes (aged 7 years and 20 months, respectively) staying there for a month or so. Somehow I scored a visit with three distinct pieces of that clan in the same pass-through. Mega efficient.

And then I had one day to see Chicago. Somewhat dreading the 17-mile trek to downtown, I got a late start (having to attend to some serious cousin play-time at the park followed by Breakfast, capital B). But once i got going, all the pieces fell together.

The Lakeshore bike path was coursing with Sunday recreaters (right? recreation-ers?), and I was more than happy to slow down around them. Lake Michigan was righteously frothing with wind, charged with the hot air in that special Midwestern way, and I dipped my toes for a bit. Riding on, I found the Art Institute and dipped my toes in there, too (my uncle's yearly pass getting me fo' free!). It felt like a buffet at La Bernadin, like karaoke at the Berlin Phil--like any type of fine art I could want was there, and all the very best.

One exhibiting artist, Zarina, had an exhibit almost entirely done in paper, exploring texture and shadow and reptition--some of my favorite stuff. But one aspect called to me, being on this trip and all: her extensive travel has taken her all over the world, and obviously informed her work. But through it all, she says in one quote, the idea of home has been her guiding vision. Whether that home was the crappy rental apartments in '70s New York, or her car during long drives through Eastern Europe, or anywhere else, the idea of four walls and a ceiling, filled with herself and her art, kept her warm. This is important for all of us, I think.

And somehow, I realized at this point, that all the time with my people helped to refine my inner rudder. How different this town felt than Montreal, and not just for the obvious reasons; by being in orbit with people I knew for just a little while, the gravity of myself felt firmer and more ready to negotiate all the excellent pieces of Chicago that I found.

After a quick jaunt through Millenium Park, and some pictures of Gehry's incredible pavilion, I took off. Navigating Chicago by bike was a real trip. Such a huge city seemed cut down to size as soon as I stood up on the pedals and grabbed a lane. Weaving through skyscrappers and under the columns of the L train tracks, I wound through Lincoln Park to see another friend, and got back to Evanston just in time for the end of dinner.

The next morning, with all the kiddos gone, I got to practice in that big, beautiful house, with a big, beautiful Steinway B, no less. My trumpet loved dancing with the acoustic of the room, and while my fingers were stiff on the piano keys, playing my stilted Bach felt very, very right. Buzzed, I left for Madison.

the gravity of other people, part 1

fret not, I have not in fact driven off the road. Instead, I went places that involved seeing people that I knew , and being the social animal that I am that meant time for blogging went out the window. A lot has happened, though. While I feel a little remiss for not documenting every step of this latest part of my journey, I realize now that a post focusing instead on what has remained in my memory, and not just a chronology, will be more satisfying to write and maybe even more interesting to read. (People close to me say that I have a problem with prefacing everything, and first I'd just like to say.. :).

I woke up before the sun on Thursday morning--4:12 in fact--to the sound of my suite mates at the hostel in Montreal taking a somewhat half-hearted (but fully intoxicated) stab at getting intimate. Luckily, it devolved into snoring before it got serious. I slept a bit longer but then got up as planned to see the sun rise.

Montreal centers itself around the majestic Mount Royal. While a beautiful park skirts the peak, it was the view from the top that seemed like a way that I might make peace with that city. It had been an interesting experience being there, one with lots of sights and exciting moments of feeling somewhere foreign, but one without much interaction. Strangely, without friends or family to serve as witness, the time almost felt like a dream. Considering that I already felt on less-than-solid ground having just leapt from relative tranquility in Boston, the added sense of sur-reality (blogs = make up any word you want) was not exactly pleasant.

But that morning, after thrashing against the 9% grades of Mount Royal's summit roads, the city lay half asleep before me, and I felt like I could breath. The stylized facades of Old-World blocks and modernist apartment complexes, the severe steeples of church after church, the dense urbanity giving way to abandoned shipping quays giving way to stretches of French-Canadian farmland--all of it was smoothed over in the dark hush of pre-morning. I took pictures as the sweat from the ride slowly dried, and smiled at the pair of hooded grandfathers walking like little boys down the hill. Before I knew it the sun had peaked out and this great city gleamed at me. I thought about a day when i would seek out the spot again, and share it.

And then all too soon, everything came to life. Riding to my car in Westmount (about 15min ride from Montreal's center) was all about being blinded by the sun and salivating at the Ferrari screaming from stop light to stop light (probably the most excellent and least practical way to get to work). Waiting for the cafe to open, the bread delivery man stopped to chat about my bike, a Mercier. He got a huge kick out of a French-less American riding a bike with a French name; I got a huge kick out of talking to someone who wasn't also behind a counter. A latte and a pastry later, I was on the road to Toronto.

Toronto, whether Canadians like it or not, is the center of their country. As I would fully discuss later on with my friends born-and-raised there, about 90% of this massive country lies to the north, largely uninhabited. But Toronto rose from its fur-outpost routes to become a hub of trade and finance (fueled by the bootleg industry in the 20s and oil industry of more recent years). Most of the place feels new and shiny, but is balanced by block after block of quirky, pointy-roofed houses. The down-town area definitely has the neon-ized, fast-food, gritty-curbs feel of big cities that I can't stand (coughNEW YORKcough), but the feel is completely different. Maybe it was the hundreds of bikers I saw out, or wide streets that let the daylight in, but I felt comfortable there like I haven't in other large metro areas.

But the big change was that I had people to see, and places to be. After a stop-off in Cobourg for some lakeside kettlebell tossing, I put my big-boy pants on to brave Toronto traffic. After hundreds of miles of calm, straight highways through farm-country, even the uber-polite Canadians felt intimidating barreling down the express route to downtown. Finding my old classmate's beautiful house in Leslieville was easy, and while she wasn't going to arrive until later I was able to let myself in and get settled.

I hadn't quite accounted for the figurative load that would come off once I locked the door behind me, though. Suddenly, solitude didn't mean being in my car, or surrounded by swarms of strangers. Alone was quiet and comfortable, and came with running water and a stocked pantry (Canadian graham crackers are just as good as American counter-parts, in case anyone was wondering). Showering and practicing, I slowly got all the kinks out, and left to meet my other friend and his brother for dinner.

I hadn't seen him since summer camp almost a decade before, but thanks to Facebook we had kept each other in mind over the years. When the opportunity finally arose for our paths to cross, it felt obvious and warm to meet up. His brother, who he lives with in the amazingly classy (but largely student-filled) neighborhood of Toronto called The Annex, had just nailed the MCAT to the back wall (95th percentile or somesuch ridiculousness), and high-end burgers and beers seemed appropriate.

My first (and potentially only) metro-ride of my journey took us to Ossington for dinner at Tall Boys, wherein one can (if they are awesome like us) have amazing nachos followed by kimchi cheese burgers and craft Canadian beers (Crazy Canuck IPA, anyone?). It was excellent, and felt like a time out with old friends, although I had only just met his brother, and only just reconnected with my buddy.

I rode home in some seriously brisk weather, and met up with my host, just back from Boston herself. While both of us kept yawning, we couldn't pull away from the conversation until late, agreeing to continue after sleeping in the next morning. I slept, and slept.

The next day unfolded better than I could've hoped. While I usually push myself to make and follow-though with plans, I was too tired to have planned very much for that Friday, and just let the day happen. We got up and almost immediately began warming up together, a ritual for brass players as sacred as it is rare. It was a perfect way to demarcate time that i had spent so intensely alone from this new time, with a person who knows me in a deep and important way, through my music. Hearing her beautiful sound, and talking to her, and feeling the warmth of musical fellowship even for just an hour or so, made me feel positively zingy (another new word for ya). I realized that more than any specific part of seeing her and my friend the night before, though, I was moved by the simple gesture of sharing the load of experience with a trusted other; the gravity of my present was no longer centered wholly in me, and it felt great.

After lunch from a decidedly snobby (and yet wholly inept) neighborhood cheese shop, I cruised over to the Art Gallery of Ontario to see an exhibit of Ai Wei Wei's work. This is the artist who designed the iconic "Bird's Nest" Stadium for Beijing's Olympics, and subsequently spoke out against the government's policy of removing residents and glossing over major problems in Chinese society. After a series of shockingly public incidents, all documented in the exhibit, Ai has been under house arrest for the last year at least.

But for how powerful his story is as an activist, his art shocked and amazed me. Candid self-portrait photographs depicting his daily life gave way to giant wooden sculptures modeled after his cat's play toys, held together with ancient Chinese woodworking practices. Then across the room were three seemingly rough-hewn beams, the thickness and length of tree trunks, that appeared to be joined along their lengths imperfectly, leaving a hole. On closer inspection, though, the hole was a perfect outline of China, and the beams were salvaged from a demolished 13th century temple.

The message became simpler, and more harsh, in the final room. A series of haphazard photographs showed Ai flicking off famous building around the world; another series depicted him dropping a presumably ancient vase, deliberately allowing it to shatter at his feet. And then on the far wall, showing Ai's largest and most involved project, was a 20'x30' spreadsheet listing the names, ages, and birthdates of more than 5000 children (less than 10% of the total death count) killed in the earthquakes in Sichuan in 2008. For a country he loves so much, Ai's role as artist seemed to be to become intimate with its most horrendous aspects.

After strolling through some other galleries and getting an excellent primer on photographic history (my buddy is a photo major at Ryerson University), we met up with my host in Kensington market. Think Santa Cruz meets Telegraph Ave. Other than offering some of the very best people watching I have experienced in quite some time, the place had shop after shop of beautiful fruit and produce, colorful used-clothing hanging from trees, and incredible ethnic food. Walking all over, I found a music store that summoned visions of Amoeba in the Bay Area, and finally had a chance to try poutine. An excellent way to feel the rest of Toronto.

I kept remarking to my friends that the town felt full of people brimming with style but who had none of the bad attitudes that so often accompanies such individualism. While I know it is a huge (and probably untrue) over-simplification, Toronto felt like it had all the good parts of a big city, and few of the bad.

That's enough for now. Up next: 'Merica.